I. Let’s say you are 60
And you don’t see how
To stop teaching
As an adjunct in a state university.
You used to make
Suppose you have a dream
of a mountain
Your young self and a friend Andres
On a steep path up
Midway, Andres offers you his
shoes. Magic, red,
Because he sees your bruised knees,
(You wonder when you wake: why Now.)
Each day we touch the unformed
Lives of those the fairytales are meant for –
Rose Red, Cordelia, the prince who finds Rapunzel.
After the glass shoes fits, fairy godmother retreats
Til the firstborn needs a blessing.
Every graduation, it repeats.
Halfway down the mountain.
We reach a plateau. Rest, the tender
No! Stay awake. Wake up.
Perigree moon ices the wild trees as
We hike like the magi till we push
Past the path I’m looking for
into the valley where
An old white horse
gallops away in the meadow.
And arrive to
find the place (you may say)
II. Come in, she says.
Old enough to be our mother,
Wood house on mud path. It rains
Through the bamboo.
After bread and soup
And once the clouds move,
We plan to leave as the dream instructs us.
Take something, she opens a closet full
Of closet things – soccer ball, dried glue
Flannel jacket, red shoes,
blue glass, baseball cap, old black umbrella.
That, I say.
She smiles. Belonged to
a Miss Poppins.